El Shaddai
by razzamatazz73
Summary: There are heroes in the darkness... And as a tragedy is in full view, those heroes must come into the light... if they can get past their own downfalls. Romeo and Juliet twist. Rated for language, violence, and romance. DISCONTINUED.
1. No Good Deed

Author's notes: This is my first Newsies fic, so please don't flame.

By the way, in case you can't tell from this story, Racetrack is my favorite newsie. AND I LOVE TORTURING HIM!

Disclaimer: YES! I OWN NEWSIES! IT'S ALL MINE! HA HA! I OWN THEM ALL! No, actually Disney owns it. All I own is the costume I wore in my Musical Theater camp production of it (man are suspenders uncomfortable), my sheet music to "Seize the Day" from the same camp, an old copy of the movie that my mom recorded off of the TV before I was born, and the laptop in which this is typed on.

Prologue: No Good Deed

When she was sure no one would be coming into her theater, Medda Larkson, the "Swedish Meadowlark" locked it up. She pulled her black crocheted shawl over her head and around her body, shielding herself from the chilly wind. After all she had seen and heard that night, one thought was in her head: What happened to all of the newsies that were at the rally earlier that night?

She knew what Jack and a few other boys' fates had been- they were sent to the refuge; Snyder had made sure of that. But what about the other boys? Most had escaped, some barely with their lives.

Medda shuddered as she remembered how they had ruthlessly beat Racetrack senseless right in front of her, despite her protests. And several other Newsies were injured that night. Who knew that the police could be so brutal? It was just sad.

That's why she had to do it- go check on the other boys. Medda continued to walk the few blocks to the Manhattan boarding house. She rang at the door, the buzzer ringing loudly in her ears.

A distraught Kloppman opened the door. "Listen, lady, it's almost midnight, and besides, this isn't a very good time…" Medda took off her shawl. "Oh," Kloppman continued, "Miss Medda. I wasn't expecting you… Come in."

"Are they alright? The boys, I mean?" she inquired, the worry evident in her voice.

"Mostly," the owner answered. "A few bruises and black eyes, nothing much… a few serious injuries, though."

"How can I help?"

"Well, for one, you can convince Kid Blink that he's not going blind in his good eye," he said, stifling a chuckle.

Despite herself, Medda let out a giggle. "Alright then."

She went up the stairs to the bunks.

"So then the cop comes over with his club and then he-"

"Yeah, Blink, you told us the story about a minute ago," a different voice interrupted.

"But it hurts!" the first voice exclaimed.

"We understand- quit your complainin'!" a new replied.

The newsies were all talking at once; the first voice was undeniably Kid Blink's. They didn't even look at Medda as she walked in; much less realize she was there.

She looked at the boys. None of the injuries were very severe; a few black eyes, cuts, bruises, broken bones- nothing much. She walked to the bunk where Blink was sitting up straight, a few other newsies surrounding him. His right eye was swollen and bruised.

"I just know it- this eye's gonna black out soon. Then I'll be completely blind, and I won't sell any papes 'cause I won't be able to see the money I'm countin'!" he exclaimed.

"That's if this strike ever ends," Skittery answered. "And you won't go blind- Kloppman looked over it himself and said that you'se fine!"

It wasn't until she spoke that the boys realized that Medda was there.

"You know," she started, "it didn't go blind yet, right?"

Blink nodded.

"Then, if it hasn't yet, I don't think it will. Usually things like that happen right away. The worst thing you're going to have is a black eye for awhile."

"Fine- but I'm gonna murder you all if I do go blind."

"So- everyone's okay?" Medda asked, her eyes searching the room.

"Pretty much, yeah," Skittery answered without looking her straight in the eye. Medda knew he was hiding something.

She made a mental head count, looking for all the newsies she knew. But deep in her heart, she knew that she was really looking for the answer to a question that was burning its way through her mind.

"Where's Race?" she finally inquired.

Suddenly, the whole room went silent. The newsies didn't want to tell her; she knew it had to be serious.

"Race… Race was hurt bad," Blink said quietly.

"Real bad," Skittery added.

A single tear fell down Medda's cheek. She wiped it away.

"How bad is 'real bad'?"

"Kloppman said he had a concussion, whatever that means, and that he got a little internal bleeding'," Pie Eater said. "All I knows is, he was knocked out at the rally and hasn't woken up yet."

Medda held her breath.

"You numbskull, it means that he hit his head and was knocked out and that he's bleedin' on the inside," Specs said matter-of-factly.

This comment only made Medda feel worse.

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"I dunno. Kloppman won't let anyone in," Blink said, pointing to a closed door at the end of the room. "But maybe he'll let you in, 'cause you're, well, you."

Medda ran down the stairs. Kloppman was sitting at the front desk, counting money and shaking his head.

"Mister Kloppman, sir- the boys just told me about Racetrack."

"Poor Racetrack…" Kloppman said solemnly, "after all he did... After what they all did..."

"I guess it shows that no good deed goes unpunished," Medda said sadly.

"God, I feel bad for those boys right now…" the old man said. "I just don't have the heart to tell them that he probably won't make it through the night, but I guess they figured it out on their own."

"Can I see him?"

"Yes. But it's not a pretty sight."

He led the woman upstairs. The noisy room went silent once more as they made their way through the bunks. Kloppman took a deep breath and opened the door.

The room was tiny, with nothing more then a bed, a tall, dirty window, and a small nightstand. Through the darkness, Medda could make out a faint outline of a teenage boy lying unconscious on a bed. Kloppman pulled out a matchbook and lit a candle.

In the newly brightened room, she could see Racetrack clearly. His shirt was off, and he was covered with a white blanket with red stains on it. His sweaty face wasn't bruised, but it looked pale, almost hollow. His breaths look short and labored. Kloppman pulled back the blanket down to the end of his stomach.

Medda gasped. Race's chest was black and blue to the point where it looked like his skin color was supposed to be purple. It was bloody and cut. It looked like the cops and scabs weren't done with him after they dragged him away from her sight.

"How do you know he had a concussion?" she asked.

"Trust me, Miss, when you've been working in the boarding business as long as I am, especially with a bunch of young men, you've seen everything." The old man sighed. "The boys got together what little money they had, and I pitched in a little, but… there still isn't enough money to pull in a doctor to save him."

Medda nodded. She dug into her coat and pulled out a medium-sized change purse and set it in front of Kloppman.

"Oh Miss Medda, thank you!"

It was the first time Medda had ever seen the old man smile.

---

"He's had a concussion, alright," the doctor said when he was summoned. "Also, the bleeding seems to be in the area where is ribs are. If he goes untreated, I'd say he has about two hours to live."

"Is there anything at all that can be done?" Medda asked, feeling tense.

"Well… there might be. There's a new kind of surgery that I was just taught by a friend that could help drastically. I haven't actually done it on a patient, though. It could be risky. But if we don't…"

"We understand, Doc," Kloppman said.

"It'll be free of charge because it's untested. Well, I better get to work! You wait with the other boys."

Medda and Kloppman walked through the door and silently closed it. Kloppman continued walking down the stairs, and Medda sat down on Blink's bed.

"So… is Race alright?" Specs asked, dreading the answer.

"We didn't think so at first, but…" Medda told the whole story.

"I guess all we got left to do is wait," Blink said when she was finished.

"Shouldn't you boys be asleep? You've all had your share of beatings tonight. You must be exhausted," she inquired.

"Racetrack's dyin'. He's a newsie. We newsies are one big family. If one of us is hurt, then we all need to be there. It's as simple as that," Blink said.

Medda suddenly burst into tears. "I feel so guilty! He got hurt getting me to safety. The cops would have gotten me right away for being involved in the strike if it wasn't for Racetrack."

"I remember once, we was playin' poker, and I was stupid enough to bet all of the money I got that day for sellin' papes," Mush said sorrowfully, "Well, Race ended up winnin', and he gave me half of what he won."

"Yeah," Specs added, "when I was too sick to sell any papes, he made sure that I had enough food and he went without any that day."

Other newsies shared stories of Racetrack's generosity. Medda was touched.

"It really ain't fair," Skittery said with a frown.

"Race is a great guy," Kid Blink added.

All of a sudden, a buzzer went off. Someone was at the front door.

"Doesn't anyone come in daylight anymore?" Kloppman could be heard saying. The newsies laughed in spite of their sorrow.

"BROOKLYN'S HERE!"

"Spot," the newsies in the bunkroom said in unison.

A sort of thunder could be heard as Spot Conlon ran up the stairs.

"Hello Manhattan!" he exclaimed. All eyes turned towards him. Spot made his way over to Blink's bunk. "Hiya, Medda!"

"Hi Spot," she answered quietly. "How's Brooklyn fairing after last night?"

"Could be worse. Nutin' much- we're Brooklyn, we can take anythin'. How're you guys?"

"Fine," someone answered.

"Alright- I've never heard you Manhattan chatterboxes be so quiet. What's the matter wit' you?" Spot asked, sensing that something was wrong. He already knew what it was, though.

"Uh… Well," Blink said, "to put it short, sweet, and to the point, Racetrack's dyin'."

Spot closed his eyes. "That bad, eh?" He shook his head and opened his eyes. "Of course, he didn't look too good when I saw him in the alley behind da theater, but I neva thought-"

"Wait," Medda interrupted, "you saw what happened?"

"No- I heard it." Spot answered, "I heard the whole thing, and just saw him aftawards."

"Well," Skittery said, "what happened?"

"Ugh. Where do I start?"

Spot began to explain the memory.

_It was chaos. There were newsies running for their lives everywhere. Spot and a few other Brooklyn newsies were trying to get out of Irving Hall by going through some of the back rooms._

_"All right," Spot said. "From this point out it's every newsie for himself. I wish all you guys luck. At least there's less people tryin' to get out this way."_

_He walked through a dressing room at the end of the hall. It looked like there was a window in there just big enough for him to get through He opened the window and climbed down. He found him self in a back alley. He was going to run when he heard voices._

_"You got him, Morris?"_

_"Yes, Oscar. Let's show him what he gets for messing with the Delancey brothers!"_

_Morris was dragging in a body, but Spot couldn't make out who it was through he darkness. He hid behind a wooden box of something, probably stage props._

_He didn't know who made them mad, but whoever it was would be in serious trouble if he didn't do something. He could hear them beat up he person, but he heard no protests or moans of pain from the person that was being hurt, which was surprising. So the person who was being soaked was either knocked out or a wimp that was very good at hiding his emotions._

_After a few moments, Spot heard Oscar say, "Alright- Anthony aka 'Racetrack' Higgins won't be messing with the Delancey Brothers ever again!"_

_So the poor soul was Racetrack. Hopefully they hadn't killed him. _

_Spot waited until he was absolutely positive that the Delancey brothers were gone before he went out. _

"_Race?" he said, worried. "Racetrack?"_

_Race was lying in an unconscious heap on the ground, his head touching the brick wall. His shirt was ripped, and through the shreds he could see bruises forming and blood seeping through. His breathing was shallow and slow, and seemed to catch every few breaths. The Delanceys obviously had avoided his face for some reason._

_All of a sudden, Race's eyes opened halfway._

"_S-Spot?" he said weakly. _

"_Race… what happened to you?"_

_That was a stupid question. He heard Oscar and Morris beat him up._

"_The- the Delancey brothers and…" Racetrack started, but he never finished. He started to have a coughing fit, and blood was trailing from his mouth. His eyes were slowly closing again._

"_Oh, no- Race! Race, try to stay awake! C'mon, you wimp!" Spot said frantically._

_But it was too late- Racetrack had slipped into unconsciousness once more._

_Spot gently picked up Race's body and carried it to the front of Irving Hall, where things had calmed down a bit. The cops and scabs were gone, and the newsies were recollecting and helping each other. _

_He walked to the nearest Manhattan newsie, which just happened to be Mush. _

"_Uh, Mush?"_

_Mush turned around and gasped. _

"_Please- get him some help," Spot asked. He lifted Racetrack into Mush's arms and made his way back to Brooklyn to check on his own boys._

Spot sighed as he finished his story.

"Mush?" Medda asked. "Is that true?"

Mush, who had been mostly silent up to this point, finally spoke. "Uh-huh. I brought him back here to the lodging house, and he's been in that room back there ever since."

Before he could say anything else, the doctor came through the door.

"Wait here- I'll be right back," Medda told the boys.

She walked over to the door. The newsies waited in anticipation. She finally came over to the boys, and the doctor left the building.

"So," Blink said when she came back, "how is he?"

Medda's look was unreadable.

"Well… the doctor said he's getting better. What ever he did worked. So… it looks like Racetrack might just pull through," she said with a smile.

A cheer was heard throughout the bunkroom.

Someone ran and told Kloppman, who came back in the room with another one of his rare grins.

"So- when's he gonna wake up?" someone inquired.

"That's the thing. We don't know. It could be a few hours, could be a few days, could be a few weeks…" Medda answered.

The newsies let out a synchronized sigh.

"The trial's tomorrow," Spot said, "how's Race gonna be there when he's knocked out?"

"He won't be there," the red-haired woman said. "Even if he was conscious, it probably wouldn't be a good idea."

The newsies and Medda talked for a few more hours. Every hour or so, either Kloppman or Medda would go check on Race to make sure he was okay. Overall, the color in his skin was slowly reappearing.

At about six in the morning, it was Medda's turn. When she walked in, she put her hand on his forehead to see if he had a fever. She pushed back a lock of his hair. Suddenly, she heard a groan.

"Racetrack?"

Race slowly opened his eyes.

"Medda?" he said weakly.

A grin appeared on the lady's face. "You're awake!"

"What the hell happened?"

"It's a long story… to make it short, you got hurt badly at the rally last night. Anyways, how do you feel?"

"Like shit."

Medda smiled. It was a relief to hear Race swearing again, weak as he was. She told him that she'd be right back.

---

The newsboys were still apprehensive about Race's condition, even though Medda told them hours before that he was going to be fine. Spot, Kid Blink, Skittery, and Mush were playing a sixth game of poker in honor of Racetrack. None of them could ever hope to be as good as he was. Blink was about to win (for the first time in his life) when Medda walked out of the back room.

"Is he the same?" Mush asked.

"Nope," Medda answered, pretending to be deadly serious.

The small group of newsies looked puzzled and frightened at the same time.

"He's… he's okay, isn't he?" Spot said, although he could almost sense that something was up.

"He's much better," Medda said excitedly. "In fact, he's awake!"

The entire bunkroom burst into applause.

---

"Race! Why are you sitting up?" Medda asked.

In the few minutes that she was speaking to the other boys, Racetrack had gotten the strength to sit up in bed.

"I'se fine, Medda!"

As if on command, his side started to ache. He clutched it and gave a small moan of pain.

"Yeah. Sure," she said as she helped him lay down again.

He certainly was looking much better, aside from the fact that his face still looked hollow. Despite the fact that he tried to hide it, he was absolutely exhausted.

"I'm going to let some of the guys in, if that's alright by you."

Racetrack gave a weak nod of approval.

Medda opened the door for Kid Blink, Mush, Spot, and Skittery.

"RACETRACK!" The four boys hollered.

The next few minutes were filled with high-fives and comments like "I knew you would pull through!" and "See, Race ain't a wimp!"

Race mostly just snickered and grinned, and only speaking when asked a question. It still hurt to talk, and his head ached.

After the wave of joy had passed, Spot toned the conversation down to a serious note.

"You are definitely not comin' to the trial this afternoon," he said.

"Snyder likes to have his trials right away, doesn't he?" Race replied. "Anyways, I gotta go- I'm not lettin' you wimps tough it out by yourselves. I's comin' whether you guys like it or not."

Medda and the four newsboys tried to persuade him otherwise, but Race would hear none of it. He let out a string of cusswords that made Medda blush. The boys were used to Racetrack's tactics, though.

"Fine," the redhead said after giving up, "but you need to rest if you want to go."

---

The rest of the strike went by without any problems, with Racetrack getting stronger everyday. Race kept trying to act like nothing was wrong with him, but the occasional wave of pain came over him. Jack and David had no idea that anything had happened. Les had some idea- he started talking a lot more to Race. Race never exactly told him that he had been hurt, but he would occasionally wince at something and clutch his side. Of course, someone was always making sure that he was okay- Kloppman had made sure of that.

Spot kept an eye on him at the trial, while Mush watched him at the lodging house. When they went to the Refuge to break Jack out, it was Skittery's turn, and so on.

On the day that they won the strike, right after they sold all of the papers for the day, they sat down at Tibby's to celebrate. Race was smoking a cigar and dealing out a game of poker to Skittery, Blink (who hadn't won a game of cards since the day after the rally), Mush, and himself. To be honest, he felt a little dizzy and had a headache, but being the tough fourteen-year-old he was, he tried to hide the fact that he was feeling sick.

They actually had money to bet with that day, unlike during the strike.

The newsies in the room would never forget that day, partly because they won the strike and partly because of what happened next.

It was the end of the game, and the four poker players were laying down their cards. Blink and Mush were already out; now it was just between Racetrack (who everyone was pretty sure would win) and Skittery.

Race laid down his cards. It was a straight in spades.

Skittery then laid down _his_ cards. It was a royal flush.

A gasp rose from the entire room. Racetrack Higgins, _the _Racetrack Higgins, actually lost his first game of poker that day. The cigar fell out of his mouth.

The room was silent for a few minutes.

Suddenly, Jack broke the silence. "You feelin' okay there, Race?" He seemed startled.

"No…" Race said truthfully. "Y-you guys, I'm gonna go back to the lodging house and-"

He never finished, because he collapsed.

He heard shouts and someone screaming, "Oh my god, Race!" and "Is he joking?" That last comment was from David. Les shook his head.

Jack whispered from where he knelt, which was right next to Racetrack, who was now only semi-conscious "Why didn't you tell me, Race? Why?"

Jack's voice was the last thing he heard before he completely blacked out.

Author's notes: Review please! By the way, I don't think the rest of the chapters will be as long. And not all of it is about "Race is hurt"- just this part and a small section of the next chapter. I'm going to try to update this as often as I can (looks at other fics and looks guilty…).

Yeah… um, I haven't updated my other fics for a month and a half because I was working on this. It took me ages because I went on two separate vacations, and well… let's face it, this has been an EXTREMELY busy summer for me. But, once school starts, I blow off my homework in study hall and write then. Hehe…

So PLEASE review! Is this a piece of crap? Or is it actually decent…which it probably isn't.


	2. Getaways

**Author's notes: **

**Yay- good reviews! I was very happy. Anyways, just to clear something up- this is not a Medda/Race story. Hello? She's old enough to be his mother. There is one romance in this, and one only- and I can tell you right now, Racetrack is not in that romance. Yet, doesn't it seem odd that if you do the character-sorting thing it comes up as Race? Well, cool down! There's a reason… you'll see it soon… **

**So… I personally think that the prologue sucked… but it was the beginning I needed to set the REAL story off. Considering that most of the story takes place fifteen years later, the story isn't (and once again I'm repeating) a Race is hurt so Medda takes care of him and they fall in love type thing. That is CHEESY! **

**In fact, Medda pretty much was a one-chapter character. Which is probably weird seeing as most of the last chapter was from her POV.**

**So, enough ranting… here's the chapter!**

Chapter One: Getaways 

"So, Cowboy, it's been about a month."

"Your point is?"

"So, is he gonna die or not?"

"Where have you been for the past month?"

"Brooklyn."

"Smartass. I already told you- Race is gonna be fine! We determined that a long time ago!"

Racetrack could hear a conversation from far away…

His eyes were still closed; it was sort of hard to tell who was speaking. The first voice was probably Spot's... Cowboy? The other person was Jack!

Race was having trouble thinking; the pain was clouding up his head. What was the last thing he remembered? They were in Tibby's… something happened, they were doing something and he lost… Poker! They were playing poker!

Suddenly every memory of the strike, of the rally, of that night in Tibby's came back to him. Just one word triggered an explosion of memories… and an explosion of pain.

He slowly opened his eyes. He was in that back bedroom at the lodging house again. He felt worse then he did when he woke up the first time- his body ached. Two chairs were in front of the door, where two people were sitting and having a conversation.

"Well, Jacky-boy, it looks like someone's finally awake," Spot said.

Jack turned around.

"Well, hiya, Race! Look who finally decided to come into the present?"

Racetrack gave a weak laugh. It was amazing how much energy it took for that small little laugh.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"A month," Spot answered.

"A month? An' what has happened in that month?" he asked.

Jack and Spot exchanged glances.

"Well, it's your news- you better be the one ta tell it," Jack said.

Spot took a deep breath and was about to speak when Race spoke for him.

"Where was she from? Manhattan? The Bronx? Brooklyn? I'm betting Brooklyn," he guessed.

"Brooklyn."

Jack burst out laughing. "He's only been conscious for about a minute and he's already gamblin'."

"How the heck did you know that? You been out for an entire month!" Spot exclaimed.

"Lucky guess," Race said. "So is it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy," Conlon answered. He told the story of how about two weeks before, Spot woke up to a knock at the door in the middle of the night. A woman carrying a basket with a bundle in it told him that his ex-girlfriend died in childbirth while giving birth to a child that could only be his. She handed a dumbstruck Spot the basket and walked away.

Spot named him the next day- Samuel, Sam until he got a better nickname when he got older.

"Samuel Conlon," Race repeated.

"Yup. By the way, Race I was wonderin' if-"

"CONLON, YOUR KID JUST CRAPPED ON ME!" Skittery yelled from the bunkroom.

Spot rolled his eyes.

"Dat's the last time I let Skitts watch Sam for me…Now if you two don't mind, I got some business to take care of." He slammed the door shut. "SKITTS, YOU WIMP! IT AIN'T LIKE YOU NEVER CRAPPED YOURSELF!"

Jack and Racetrack were in hysterics, Race wincing.

"Spittin' image of his daddy," Jack said when they were done laughing.

"He is, is he? Well, his mouth must be the size of a watermelon, then," Race replied with a smirk.

Jack really missed hearing Racetrack joke around- he started laughing again.

Race started laughing too, but that turned into a coughing fit. Jack's grin slipped off his face.

"You okay there?" he asked his friend seriously.

"Yeah. Thanks for askin' though."

"I's worried about you- we all were. How comes you didn't tell me that you'se hurt?" Jack inquired.

Race shrugged. "I don't know. So," he said, changing the subject fast, "what else happened while I was out?"

"That's about it. Mostly we was just worryin' 'bout you." Jack could see that Race was irritated that the subject got back to him. "Seriously, Race, you gave us a scare. You just sort of passed out that night at Tibby's, we didn't know nuttin' until you woke up just now. Kloppman said you almost didn't make it before. You was hurt bad, he said, Race. I still don't get why you didn't tell me."

The Italian shrugged again.

"C'mon. I know why, I'm just waitin' for you to say it."

"Why do you care?" Race looked away from his eyes.

"'Cause I really don't like it when one of my best friends doesn't tell me that he's hurt."

"Fine then. Tell me why."

"Because you were afraid that if you told me, I'd think you were a wimp. Well let me tell you somethin', Mister Higgins- you ain't a wimp. You made it through that strike, an' God knows what else. You almost died- twice. You're the loyalist of loyal friends. I know that you don't like feelin' weak, but still, you're hurt an' you shouldn't keep it a secret. So believe it or not, Race, you ain't a wimp. Skitts is a wimp." Race snickered at that last comment.

"Thanks, Cowboy," he said. He didn't really believe what Jack said; he was a good actor, though, and would pretend that he did. "So why'd I pass out?"

"Kloppman said that you just pushed yourself too far. You just tired yourself out, I guess."

Race nodded.

"Well, um, I guess the other guys will want ta know that you're awake, if Conlon hasn't told them yet," Jack said. He started to get up.

Racetrack tried to sit up, but found that he was too weak. And his side felt like it was on fire.

Jack walked over to him and gently helped his friend sit up. He noticed that Race winced every few seconds. He told Race that he'd be right back.

He sighed as he closed the door. He didn't like seeing Race that weak.

"Listen up. That means you, Blink."

Blink reluctantly looked up. He'd won several games of cards since the night when Race collapsed, and was getting better. He was interested in seeing how he did against Race when he woke up.

"What's up?" Mush said.

"Didn't you tell them yet?" Jack asked Spot, who was busy throwing the dirty cloth diaper at whoever was closest to him. Little Sam was sleeping in his basket, diaper freshly changed.

Spot shook his head. "Just Davey."

David was attempting to try to learn how to play poker with Blink. He smiled.

"Tell us what?" Pie Eater asked.

Jack grinned. "Racetrack just woke up a few minutes ago."

The bunkroom cheered, just like they did the last time.

"Can we see him? Can we, can we?" Les asked.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… calm down there, little guy," David answered, silencing his brother.

"Just a few of you at a time. He doesn't like to admit it, but he's very weak," Jack said whispering just in case Race could hear him. "So no rough stuff around him. Agreed?"

"Yeah."

"Sure."

"Whatever."

"Agreed."

Random newsies said other things, too.

"I mean it, guys!" Jack exclaimed. "We don't want a repeat of last time."

---

"You won?" Blink was in awe. "I've been practicing for a month an' I still lose to you."

Mush, Skittery, and Blink were playing poker with Racetrack on his bed.

"So, Conlon's a father? Who would've guessed?" Race said.

"I know," Mush said, "the odd thing is, he's actually doing a decent job."

"Yeah," Blink added, "he'll get someone from Brooklyn to take care of the kid every once in awhile, but mostly he's a good little daddy. Ha!"

"I heard that!" Spot entered through the doorway, carrying his son.

This was the first time Race had seen Sam, thanks to his position at that moment. He realized instantly that Jack was right when he said that Sam looked like his father.

"Beat it, you guys- I want to talk to Race alone for a bit." It was an order, not a suggestion.

The three non-bedridden Manhattan newsies left the room, leaving Racetrack and the Brooklyn leader all alone. Spot pulled a chair up to the edge of the bed.

"Can I hold him?" Race asked. Spot gently put Sam into his arms.

The little boy grabbed Race's finger and squeezed it. He drew back his finger in pain.

"Ow… he's a strong boy, he is…just like his daddy…" Race was getting tired.

And so was Sam. He was already almost asleep.

"So," Race said with a yawn, "are you going to get him baptized?"

Spot had thought about this; he thought about it very hard. He was never baptized, although he did go to church occasionally. He knew that Racetrack was Catholic, and hardly ever missed a Sunday going to church. Except while he was unconscious, of course.

"Yes. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," he replied.

"Hmm?" Race was fading fast.

"Yeah, well, you see, I was wondering if you would be his godfather."

Race woke up a bit at this point. "Me? But… why?"

"Because you're Catholic, you understand this stuff, an' because you'se a friend."

Did Spot Conlon just call him his friend? Apparently.

"But…" Race was confused. "Why not someone from Brooklyn?"

"Because I said so." Spot punched Race in the shoulder, not caring that he was already hurt. Racetrack gave a small yelp of pain. Spot could be brutal sometimes.

"Alright then, I guess…" Race was falling asleep again.

"Thanks. It's getting late, I gotta get Sam back to Brooklyn."

"Hey Spot?"

"Yeah?"

"You better be a good example for this kid…"

"Why?"

"'Cause…" he didn't finish- he was already asleep.

Spot shook his head. "'Night, Race."

---

Racetrack was hoping that he didn't have to stay in bed for more then a few days, but he knew that Jack would be very protective of him.

"C'mon Jack! I'se fine!" he argued.

"Nope. You are not sellin' for at least a few weeks," Jack replied.

"But Kloppman-"

"-already said that you don't have to pay until you're sellin' again."

Race frowned. "Fine. On a few conditions."

"What?"

"That you guys come in to play poker all the time, an' that I can come to Tibby's wit' you guys sometimes if I'm up to it."

"Okay…" Jack seriously doubted that he would come to Tibby's with them very soon- he couldn't walk without help yet.

"Cowboy, hurry up! You need to go and sell!" Kloppman was shouting from the top of the stairs.

"Gotta go. " He started towards the stairs, but he turned around so he could wave to Race. Race was frowning. "Race… I'm sorry."

He walked down the stairs and left.

---

Race really hated being alone all day. After the first few days, he fell into a routine. Usually, he'd play solitaire for a few hours, but he tired of that fast. Then he'd fall asleep for a while, until Kloppman brought in his lunch. Some of the guys would come in then; the fast sellers and the newer newsies that couldn't sell as much. He usually would talk to someone or play cards until Jack or one of his closer friends came back. As promised, they would play poker until Race won all of their money or Kloppman yelled at him to leave. Every night, Spot would bring Sam over so that Race could see his soon-to-be-godson.

Finally, after two weeks, Racetrack could walk unaided. He was thrilled to be able to go down to Tibby's with the other guys, and at this point moved back into the regular bunkroom.

"C'mon, Jacky-boy, let me sell!" he would say at least once a day. But every day for another week, he told a disappointed Racetrack that he couldn't sell.

Jack thought about it for a while. Finally, he said yes. "Just take someone with you."

"Fine," he said with a bit of bitterness. He usually wasn't particularly fond of selling with someone else; he preferred to go solo.

He sold with Skittery, and made him go down to the races everyday with him.

"Race, if you make me go down there one more time I swear…"

"Is that a threat?" Race asked.

"Yes."

Race rolled his eyes. "I'll take you down any time, anywhere."

Skittery laughed, knowing that Race couldn't take anyone at the moment. "Sure you will, Race… sure you will."

"Wimp." He punched Skitts in the shoulder.

They laughed.

"Well," his selling partner said, "we better go back to the lodging house… Kloppy'll be closing the doors soon."

"You go ahead… I got somethin' I gotta do first," Race replied.

After Skittery had left, Race turned and started to walk to Brooklyn.

He knocked on the door at the Brooklyn Lodging House.

"Is Spot Conlon here?" he asked the newsie that answered the door.

"Yeah, hold on a sec." The newsie turned and hollered up the stairs, "CONLON! SOMEONE'S HERE TO SEE YOU!"

"Hey, Race… whatcha doin' in Brooklyn?" Spot asked as he ran down the stairs.

"Came to see you an' Sam. Where is the little guy?"

"Sleepin'. Wanna see?"

Race followed him up the stairs and into Spot's room. A small cradle was set up in the corner, and the tiny child was sleeping in it.

"When's the baptism?" Race whispered, careful not to wake up Sam.

"Saturday sound good ta you guys in Manhattan?"

"Yeah."

"Alrighty then…" Spot said.

Racetrack and Spot talked for a while longer, and Race made comments that Spot was going soft every few minutes. Finally, he waved goodbye and started back to Manhattan, knowing someone would have to open a window for him to get in.

He whistled on his way back to the lodging house, glad not to be imprisoned there anymore.

When he was going through Midtown, he heard someone scream from the other side of the street. Race sprinted over, letting his curiosity take over.

Facedown on the ground in front of him was a young Italian woman that could scarcely be older than fifteen. She was lying dead in a pool of her own blood, a knife still in her back.

**Author's notes: Alright- I lied… a lot of this was "Race is hurt". Well, that's about it for that. The _real_ plot starts now. Oh, and just a quick reminder: one of my friends read this before I posted it, and she said that it sounded like Race was going to fall in love with the girl he found stabbed. Hence, the word _dead_. So, just so you know, this isn't a newsie-finds-a-girl-that-has-been-soaked-and-falls-in-love-with-her-story.**

**Thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers! **

**Gamble7: Ahh… he is hot, isn't he? Thanks for being my very first reviewer!**

**The Third Fate: Updating! Oh- and I like to put suspense into my stories. Expect lots of cliffhangers.**

**Cakes: Hi! Awesome review…yeah, he did look bad at the rally. I hate how they didn't explain what happened to them all. Anyways, thanks!**

**ShadyJones: Thanks for the tip on the flashbacks. I did that because last time I did that, a few people didn't understand that it was a flashback. By the way, see the note above about how it isn't Race/Medda. Anyways, thanks for the tips and review!**

**DutchysAngel--Tails: Thanks for the awesome review!**

**Please review!**


	3. Two Pasts in One

Author's notes: Thanks for all of the rockin' (my cousin says that it means that something was bad; but if something rocks that means it's good. So rockin' means good) reviews!

**Anyways, nothing to comment on this time! **

Chapter Two: Two Pasts in One

Racetrack looked around again. Was this girl's murderer still lurking? He didn't hear anything.

He looked at the girl again. Her clothes weren't rags, but it wasn't like she was wearing a full gown. Just a simple dress, nothing much. Race noticed something in her left hand. He pried a piece of paper out of her cold, limp fingers. He looked at the scrawled handwriting, and attempted to read the crumpled note.

_To whoever finds this:_

_If you are reading this, I must be dead. The story of it is a long and complicated one, and I do not have the time to write the entire story. However, I will tell you that it was my own relative who killed me, over an argument that could have been avoided. I will not name my killer, because I still love him, even now._

_I must warn you: trust no one. Even someone as close as a family member or best friend might one day be the cause of your death. Trust no one, and keep on your guard._

_I also must ask one more thing of you: Take care of my daughter. She is barely two weeks old, and she is currently hidden under the stairs in front of Irving Hall. Her father died before her birth. Her name is Irene and she was born on September 5, 1899. She is not yet baptized, but I would like it if she was. _

_Also, please take the necklace from around my neck. I would like my child to have this one relic of me._

_Thank you for reading this… please take care of Irene. She's all that's left of my deceased lover and me._

Race was in awe. What was the full story of this young woman who had left him the instructions? What was the story of Irene's birth? What would become of Irene? Was the same man that had killed her mother going to find her and attempt to repeat history?

It didn't occur to him that the child might be in danger. He stuffed the note into his pocket, untied the necklace from the girl's neck, and ran as fast as he could to Irving Hall. He stuffed the necklace into his pocket with the note.

Sure enough, Irene was sound asleep in a small basket, not unlike the one Sam slept in when he was a few weeks younger. He scooped up the basket and looked at the child.

What little hair she had was a dark shade of brown. It was evident that she was at least some part Italian; you could see it in her looks. Race knelt next to the basket. With a shaking hand, he touched the small girl's head. She woke up almost instantly. A small whimper erupted from her tiny mouth.

"Oh… no, don't cry…" he whispered, hoping to settle her down.

He looked deep into her brown eyes. Racetrack didn't know a baby could have so much concentration; she stared back with such intensity. Irene started to cry, but she didn't wail. Just a few silent tears rolled down her pale, rosy cheeks.

_It's almost as if she knows that her mother is dead_, Racetrack thought. "Shh… bambina," he whispered, using the Italian word for child.

He himself was Italian; but everyone knew that. Although, few people knew that he could speak two languages. Few people knew much about Race. They didn't know that he witnessed his entire family be slaughtered before his eyes; they didn't know that he had barely got away with his life. They didn't know how frightened he was to leave Little Italy, where he had lived for years. They didn't know how scared he had been at the time, hardly even six years old, when one of the older newsies found him wondering in the street, semiconscious.

Maybe that's why this small child captivated him; they had something in common.

Irene took his finger in her tiny hand, and brought it up next to her face.

After pondering for a moment, Race decided to take her to the lodging house for the night. In the morning, he would sit down with Kloppman and decide what the fate of that tiny child would be.

---

"C'mon, Kloppy, lemme in!" Racetrack was getting impatient.

"You know the rules, Mister Higgins," the old man said through the door, "no one comes in after the doors are locked."

"But you let Spot in all the time!"

"Mister Conlon isn't a Manhattan newsie, Race. He's a special exception."

"Aw, an' here it was that I thought that Kloppy was just _afraid_ of him."

"Racetrack Higgins, you little son-of-a-"

Irene, who had just woken up again and was crying, interrupted him.

"Shhh… quit cryin', little goil… it's okay. I'se here; 'S okay Irene," Racetrack whispered. Irene settled down almost instantly.

A wide-eyed Kloppman thrust open the door. "_Anthony Higgins! What the hell are you trying to do? Where'd you get her?_"

Irene started crying again. Race set down the basket and lifted the baby girl out of it. He started to gently rock her back and forth.

"Oh, damn it Kloppman… I just got her to shut up!"

Kloppman had a look of udder shock on his face. A thunder-like sound erupted from behind him as Jack, Mush, and Kid Blink ran down the stairs.

"What's all the commotion, Kloppy?" Kid Blink asked.

"Yeah, what's-" Mush was cut off by Jack, who gasped at the image before him, of Racetrack cradling a baby in his arms.

"First Spot, now Race? Race, we'se know you like to gamble, but this…" Jack trailed off.

Race just shook his head. Irene had finally drifted back to sleep in his arms.

He walked into the common room, gently stroking the tiny girl's head. The other men followed him. He sat on the tattered chair.

"She ain't mine…" he whispered, hoping that the babe would stay asleep. "I found her mother dead, wit' this note." He handed Blink the note, who passed it around.

"Well, Racetrack," Kloppman said when he was finished. "What are you going to do? You found her; it's your choice."

Race pondered for a minute, still looking at the sleeping child in his arms. "I guess… she'll stay for the night, an' then… we'se gonna figure out what to do wit' her tomorrow."

There wasn't a reply from anyone. Race wondered if they were at a loss for words or if they didn't want to wake Irene.

"You can have the back room again, Race," Kloppman said, somewhat distraught. "So that you can take care of her for the night, I mean."

Race gently carried the sleeping child up the stairs. He walked into the bunkroom, while ignoring the stares, gasps, and ramblings of the other newsies.

---

"This here's where she'll stay if she comes here," the woman said, turning into a room full of babies in beat up cribs. The stench was bad- like no one had ever changed the children's diapers.

Racetrack had gone to the orphanage the next day, while everyone else sold their papers. He looked around the dump that they called a home for orphans, and thought about how he had almost been sent there.

He was reluctant to give the child up, but Jack told him that there was no way he was going to be up all night listening to a little girl cry. Kloppman, on the other hand, completely left it up to Race, saying it was his choice. He knew that Race was emotionally attached to Irene, because he was the only one who knew about the fourteen-year-old's past.

_Race thought about when was brought to the Manhattan Lodging House eight years before. When they brought him in the door, he passed out. A few days later, he woke up, recovered a bit- except for his mind. No one could get him to speak. They couldn't even get his name out of him._

"_We'se found him soaked right outside of Little Italy," the newsie that found him had said. "He ain't said nothin' since he woke up. Somethin's wrong wit' this one, Kloppman. Maybe it'd jus' be best to take him to the orphanage."_

_But Kloppman would hear none of it._

_Racetrack, or Tony as he was called at the time, suddenly found himself in Kloppman's office. _

"_You got a name, kid?" he was asked, gently._

_Tony nodded._

"_Will you tell me?"_

_He shook his head._

"_Are you a runaway?"_

_He shook his head again._

"_Are you an orphan?"_

_Tony started crying. This was the first time he had really thought about the fact that he had no family, no one at all in the world._

"_Aww, kid, don't cry… I'm trying to help you, can't you see?" the man had said. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean to bring back any bad memories. C'mon, just tell me your name."_

"_M-my n-n-name is A-A-Anthony," young Racetrack stuttered._

"_You got a last name?"_

"_Higgins. My name is Anthony Higgins," he said, a lot clearer this time._

"_Well, Mister Higgins, would you please tell me about what made you cry?" Kloppman replied._

_Tony told the slightly younger Kloppman his story. "An'… they jus' left me there. Didn't even care. An' I looked around an' saw Mama, an' Papa, an' my brother an' sister- they was all dead." He started sobbing again._

_Kloppman pulled the six-year-old into a hug. "I'll be here if you need me. Now, Tony, you have a decision to make. Would you like to go to the orphanage? Or would you like to stay here and work as a newsie?"_

"_A newsie?" the confused little boy had said in his innocence._

"_Yes, a newsie. A newsboy? The boys who sell newspapers?"_

"_Oh… yes. I guess. I'll be a newsie."_

And he had been ever since, and would be until the day he died. His nickname came a little later, when one of the newsies took him to the races one day.

"Umm…" Race pondered. "Actually," he said, "I'm going to keep her."

And with that, he walked out the door and headed back to the lodging house. Who cared about what Jack thought? For once in his life, he wasn't going to bother listening to his leader.

"Well," he said to Irene, who was cooing in his arms, "hello, Miss Irene Higgins."

**Author's notes: That chapter was a little shorter than usual… Well, I hope you guys liked it, though… I'm going to try to update once a week, but I'm not making any promises! By the way, tell me later if Irene or Sam sounds Mary Sueish… I'm really scared. I don't think they are… but you never know…**

**The Third Fate: Hehe… dead girl… Anyways, she is always known as "the dead girl" to everyone… hahaha. Okay, I guess it's not funny. Anyways, thanks for the review!**

**Cakes: Yep, my AIM is the same as my penname. And you already figured out a tiny bit of the plot! But only a tiny bit…**

**Gamble7: Yeah, umm… my Spot!muse wasn't exactly happy about having a kid to take care of… the only thing he likes about Sam!muse is the fact that he craps on Skittery. Race!muse likes Irene!muse, though. I have lots of muses.**

**Silky Conlon: Ooh… Spot!muse is flattered… and Race!muse is mad… Thanks for the review!**


	4. Spot’s Problem, and Race’s Reaction

**Author's notes: Yup, I changed the title. It's now "El Shaddai," which means "God almighty" in Hebrew. We did the song by Amy Grant in my dance show, and it really ties in later on. You'll see… you'll see…**

Chapter Three: Spot's Problem, and Race's Reaction

"So Race is a daddy now too, eh?" Spot said when he heard the news. "I'll bet Cowboy's gonna have a fit."

Sam was getting handsomer and handsomer everyday. Not that his father noticed. Spot Conlon had his own problems to worry about.

One of his most trusted boys, Pipes, had run off with a girl that just happened to be Spot's cousin Julia. They eloped, and Spot was furious when he found out. Well, no one abandoned Spot Conlon. No one. Especially when the reason was Spot's only living relative.

So, Pipes got what every newsie that betrayed Spot Conlon got: an unavoidable death sentence. So, a few weeks before, Spot sent someone to murder Pipes. But Spot wasn't just satisfied with Pipes's death; now he was after Julia and the rest of his family. Julia took the loss of her husband hard, and nearly died in the birth of her daughter. Shortly after her baby girl was born, she went into hiding. After a few days of searching, Spot's boys found Julia but not Irene. Spot ordered them to kill her, and didn't care where the child was, figuring she was already dead.

But she wasn't. Julia was the young Italian girl Racetrack had found dead, and Irene was her daughter. Which is why Spot was worried.

If Race made the connection between Irene and Spot, he would turn away from Brooklyn. And if Race told Jack (which he inevitably would)… then all ties between Manhattan and Brooklyn would be severed. He didn't care if Irene lived; murdering her would be out of the question.

But how would he make sure nobody knew that he had killed Irene's mother?

Spot's thinking was interrupted by a cry; Sam had just woken up from his afternoon nap, and his diaper needed to be changed.

"Aww… shit. Someone else take care of that," he said. In his worries about whether Brooklyn and Manhattan would stay allies, he had been neglecting his son. Someone else could change his diaper- Spot was busy. Someone else could put him in bed- Spot was busy. Spot was always busy.

Spot started pacing around his room in Brooklyn, still pondering. He had never been close to Julia; they were related only by marriage. His mother's brother had married an Italian girl after his wife died on the crossing to America from Ireland, or something like that, and Julia was his uncle's adopted daughter. Spot never really cared to find out. She was his only living relative, so he had to see her sometimes. She worked in a bar, and they chatted every now and then, but he couldn't have cared less whether they were related. She was the reason that Pipes had been disloyal, and she payed her price. Of course, Spot wasn't the one who killed her. No, he didn't want her blood on his hands. He just ordered his boys to kill her- Spot never usually killed anyone by himself.

He'd just not tell Race about Julia. He'd make sure his boys would do the same. But if Race somehow found out… he'd have a plan. But what would he do?

Suddenly, it hit him- Sam! When Race became his godfather the following day, he would have to stick around. So… Manhattan and Brooklyn would have to stay allies, because of the commitment Race would have to make.

He smirked to himself.

* * *

"You did _what_?" Jack said. He was furious.

"I'se keepin' her, Jack," Race said.

"Where? In case you haven't noticed, Racetrack, the name of this place is The Manhattan _Boys_ Lodging House. Not goils. _Boys_. Last time I'se checked, that baby ain't a boy."

"When'd you check?" Race said with his trademark smirk. "And besides- Kloppman said she could stay wit' me."

"You'se gonna go broke! Two people you'se gonna have to pay to stay here. Two mouths to feed."

"She stays for free, according to Kloppman. And I guess I'll sell more papes an' play a few less poker games."

"Why the hell is Kloppman helpin' you out? Why the hell is he compromisin' for you?" Jack said, thinking it was unfair.

"'Cause," Race answered, "I'se guess I'se just special. Irene stays, Jacky-boy- whether you'se like it or not."

Jack glared at his friend.

"By the way- we'se havin' a double baptism now for Sam and Irene. Will you be her godfather?" Race asked.

Jack was in awe. The conversation had changed fast. Almost too fast for his liking.

"I'se guess- I ain't much for church. Not as good as you'se are," he said. "But how comes you ain't askin' Conlon?"

Racetrack laughed. "Conlon? My kid's godfather? You gotta be kiddin', Cowboy. He's even worse at goin' to church then you are."

* * *

The very next day, both Sam Conlon and Irene Higgins were baptized. The ceremony wasn't huge, just a few of the top dogs from Brooklyn and Manhattan. Spot was a little hurt that Race chose Jack to be Irene's godfather, but that was expected- Spot had more titles than all the other newsies put together. Some were out of admiration, others of hate- and others just because the newsies were bored.

Before the baptism, Spot had made an announcement that no one was to talk about Julia's murder to anyone. They were to pretend that it never happened. He stated his reasons- he never lied to his own boys. Just everyone else's. Of course, he didn't know that Kid Blink had just dropped by when he was finished selling his newspapers for the day.

Racetrack was smiling and showing off his newly baptized daughter at the Manhattan party. Spot and Race decided that they should have two separate parties, just in case things got out of hand. Normally they wouldn't have cared, but since they had their children to worry about, they decided that it would be for the best.

Blink wanted to wait until the party was in full swing before he pulled Racetrack aside to tell him what he had heard.

"Uh… Race…" he said, sort of dreading the conversation he was about to have, "there's somethin' I gotta tell you'se."

"Can't ya see I'se a little busy, Blink?" Race said, slightly irritated.

Blink sighed. Jack wasn't the only one who wasn't enthusiastic about Race's decision to keep Irene- none of the newsies were exactly thrilled that their friend was suddenly a father. Race had become so serious when it came to Irene- no one else could change her, dress her, feed her- he was the exact opposite of how Spot had been acting around Sam lately. Of course, everyone was allowed to hold her. At least Irene was pretty good at sleeping through the night- it could be worse. Skittery was just happy that the little girl hadn't decided to crap on him yet.

"It's real important, Race."

Race let David hold his daughter for a while. He followed "What's up, Kid?"

"It's about Spot. An' Irene. An' that goil you found last week. Turns out, she was Spot's cousin Julia. The guy she was wit' was one of Spot's boys, an' they pissed him off. So… well, you know what happens when someone pisses Spot off…" Blink said, trailing off.

"It was Spot," Race muttered under his breath. "He killed her- it was Spot."

Blink could see the fury in his eyes. "Now, Race, don't go doin' anythin' drastic now-"

But Race was already gone.

**Author's notes: The next chapter skips ahead a bit. You'll see. So, is Spot more in character in this chapter? Man, he's hard to write. But you guys (and goils) knew that.**

**AH! My spell check keeps spazzing out. They have it so you can set it at all different languages, but not for an NYC accent. Spell check does not like the newsie's accent one bit.**

**Shout outs:**

**Gamble 7: I most likely will… considering that I've had this chapter typed up for a few days, and the next one's almost done. Thanks for the complements!**

**madmbutterfly713: Yeah- it's amazing how many people are way older than us on here. Yeah- that's my first Newsies story, but I've read many others. I've written in other categories before- but not in this one.**

**LeftyHiggins: OMG, you reviewed my story! EVERYONE READING THIS READ HER STORY "ROSES" RIGHT NOW BECAUSE IT TOTALLY ROCKS! Seriously- it does. Thanks for the review!**

**Silky Conlon: I don't know why people spell their muses names like that. Everyone does it, though, so I guess I do too now. By the way, Race!muse is very flattered by your compliment. He says that he thinks he's hot too. I just hope it doesn't go to his head…**


	5. On Opposite Sides of New York

Author's notes: You guys rock! Need I say more? Sorry- this one's really short… I've got a big project due, and I've been working nonstop, but I want to keep my promise of updating once a week. So…

Chapter Four: On Opposite Sides of New York

Spot Conlon was wrong. Dead wrong. If he thought for a minute that Racetrack would stick around after finding out that it was Spot that ordered his child's mother's death sentence, he was wrong. Of course Race told Jack, who despite the fact that he wasn't thrilled about having Irene around, was on his side.

No one could stop Race from marching over to Brooklyn that very minute. No one. David, Blink, Mush, and Jack followed him as fast as they could, but to no avail.

As soon as he saw Spot, he punched him right in the nose.

"What the heck was that for, Race?" Spot said innocently, trying to wipe the blood away from his nose.

"I think you know, Conlon," he answered, absolutely furious. "Don't try to hide it; we'se know all about your cousin. Why the hell did you kill her? It ain't her fault that she fell in love."

Spot's face turned grim. Race had figured it out. "I didn't kill her!"

Racetrack shook his head. "Yes you did. You did, Conlon, and for that I'm never gonna forgive you. You killed Irene's mother. You killed your own cousin. YOUR OWN GODDAMN COUSIN. What kind of father will you be to your own son? Or will you kill him before he turns-"

He didn't finish; a punch from Spot made him stop mid sentence. No one talked to Spot Conlon like that. Sam was hastily thrust into David's arms as the fight progressed.

Race replied with a blow to Spot's cheek, and soon no words were needed to finish up their argument. A punch here, a tackle there, and a kick everywhere. Spot purposely went for Race's bad side, knowing that it would hurt the most. Race winced, and tried not to show the pain. He punched Spot in the nose.

David yelled for help, knowing that Race would die if the fight continued for much longer. He was utterly shocked at the fact that Race had almost died twice, and was up and about two months later. He admired him for the fact that he actually attempted to be a good influence on Les. The other newsies spat, fought, and swore in front of the boy, and although he tried not to show it, David was horrified. Racetrack had been there for as long as he was a newsie, and he had no intention of letting him down. At least, until that night, when he would announce that he was going back to school.

David yelled once more, and Mush and Kid Blink ran over.

With one last blow to Spot's head, they dragged Race away from Brooklyn. He was protesting and screaming all the way, "Murder! Killer! You can't just order someone to be killed, Conlon! Leaders don't kill their own men! OR THEIR OWN FAMILY MEMBERS!"

Two days later it was official: Manhattan and Brooklyn were no longer allies, but enemies. Jack didn't approve of Spot's just ordering someone to be killed. Spot had done it before- he just kept it quiet.

In response, both Spot and Race were obsessive about taking care of their children; Spot was never seen without Sam in his arms, and Race carried around Irene with him everywhere. Spot found that Sam was a good tool to selling extra newspapers.

"Fire burns down skyscraper! C'mon, lady, I got a kid to feed! Buy a pape to feed my lil' boy?" Spot would yell everyday.

Race's comment about Spot killing his own relatives, that he would kill Sam one day hurt him. Maybe that's why he was determined to be a good father- to prove Racetrack Higgins wrong.

The Brooklyn boys were careful after that; Spot would order someone to be beaten if they said one word about Manhattan or made Spot mad.

Racetrack refused to talk about Sam, Spot, or Brooklyn. Jack thought maybe he felt bad about abandoning Sam, but he couldn't be sure. Race had changed quite a bit since Irene came into his life. The little girl seemed to bright up the part of his life that had been darkened by Brooklyn, the strike, and the fact that he still occasionally winced in pain.

Race didn't tell anyone that he still hurt; he didn't want anyone to think he was weak- despite what Jack had told him. The only person he confided in was Kloppman, who said that he'd probably have pain there for his entire life. Looking at Irene took all the pain away, though.

Author's notes: Yeah. Really, really short. The rest of the chapters won't be as short…

**I really don't have time to give shout outs to every person (sorry! I'm really busy)… so I'm going to do a "reviewers of the chapter" sort of thing, with two reviewers each chapter. All of your reviews are appreciated, though, so keep reviewing!**

**LeftyHiggins: OMG, you read my story! Thanks for all of the compliments! OMG, OMG, OMG! Sorry… I'm really excited. By the way, love your story. Update soon!**

**madmbutterfly713: Thanks for telling me I was going too fast… this was originally nonexistent. I skipped right to the next chapter… so thanks! **


	6. Saint Higgins

**Author's notes: Yes, I'm going to try to make this one longer… sorry!**

Chapter Five: Saint Higgins

Fifteen-year-old Saint ran down to the Newsboys Lodging House on Duane Street, dark curls flying behind her. She flung open the front door. Something smelled like her father was cooking spaghetti and sausage…

Sure enough, there was the twenty-nine year old man she had come to know as her father, making food for "_Notte Italiana_" or Italian night at the lodging house, just like every Thursday.

"_Ciao_, Papa!"

"Hello, 'Rene," her father answered, wiping away some sauce that had made its way onto his face.

Saint rolled her eyes at her father; he was now the only person in New York City that still called her Irene. She knew that he did it just to get on her nerves.

"I've told you many times- they call me 'Saint' now."

"But I ain't them," he said with a smirk. "How's my girl?"

"Papa, why do you worry about me?" she said, shaking her head.

"I can't help it," he replied. "I want you to be happy. _Stai contento_."

"I am happy. I'm the happiest girl in Manhattan."

And she was.

The years went by fast after Manhattan and Brooklyn stopped talking to each other. Newsies came and newsies left. Irene and Sam, on their opposite sides of New York, were growing up.

Irene's papa loved her so- he spoiled her and played with her. His little girl never took off her mother's necklace. It was two pieces of black ribbon sewn together. Embroidered red roses with their green stems were on the outside ribbon, and the inside one had "Julia" embroidered in neat red script. Hung on the ribbon was a small silver key. Irene and her father didn't know what it was for, but it was there just the same.

People never noticed that Saint and Racetrack weren't biologically related- they were inseparable. Race taught her to play poker at a very young age, just as was common in Italian heritage, and it wasn't long before she could beat anyone- except her father, of course. They still lived at the lodging house, where they had a sort of family of newsies.

Most of the original strike group was gone. All that remained were Mush, Kid Blink, Skittery, David (who was mostly at school, and only around at Easter, in summer, and at winter break), and Jack. Racetrack's newsie friends were all uncles to her, and Sarah Jacobs an aunt. Kloppman was a sort of grandfather, as emotionally supportive to her as he was to Race.

Jack and Irene had a special relationship- he spoiled her almost as much as Race did. He would tell her about Santa Fe, and she would make him promise to bring her with him when he went. All feelings of resentment towards her were gone. He never ended up getting married to Sarah, but they still had occasional dates.

Irene was a very good child- she and her father went to church every Sunday. When she did something wrong (this included "improving the truth"), she went to confession. She got so obsessive about going to confession when she did even the slightest thing wrong, that one day, Mush started calling her "the little saint." Soon almost every one would call her "Saint" when they were joking around. Sometime in this time of happiness, Saint's birth name was almost entirely forgotten by all, except for her father and Kloppman, who still called her Irene. Kloppman called her that because he was used to it, and because he hated change. Her father just called her that because he liked to get on her nerves.

The biggest change of all happened on the twenty-first of March, in the year 1911. That day changed much in both Irene and Sam's worlds- the death of one human being. The owner of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, Kloppman, was dead. He died of a fever epidemic, and an eleven-year-old Irene stood by her adopted grandfather's side as he left the world and all its inhabitants.

"_Things are going to change, Irene, for the better and the much, much worse. It'll seem like everything's perfect… then spin out of control. Just remember, it'll get better. Everything, no matter how bad it might be, will get back to normal. For the better. Irene, I want you to promise me something."_

"_What, grandpapa?"_

"_Take care of Manhattan. It's your daddy's job now, but one day, it'll be yours. One day, someone's going to want to take it away. You have to stop at nothing to make sure that Manhattan is safe. Do you promise?"_

"_I promise."_

"Good…" 

That's when he died. In his will, Kloppman had left control of the lodging house to Racetrack, who currently was also sick with the fever. He wasn't nearly as sick, but still not fit enough to take control at that exact minute. For a few weeks after that, Mush was the one who operated the lodging house, but as soon as he recovered (which took a while because his immune system was weaker than most people's) Racetrack took control.

This changed Irene's lifestyle around a bit.

Irene now had the bedroom upstairs all to herself. In years past, Irene had slept on a small cot while her father slept on the small bed. He moved to the bedroom downstairs. Despite the fact that he made more than enough money collecting the newsies' rent for the day, he still sold newspapers. Not very many, but just so he could have something else to do except go to the races all day. Skittery, Mush, Kid Blink, and Jack stopped being newsies, but they still lived in the lodging house. They all got work at factories or in distribution of the papers to the newsies.

Irene didn't quite understand what Kloppman meant when he said that, only that she had to take care of Manhattan. So she worked right along with her father, waking newsies up, cooking supper. She never told anyone- not even Race- about her promise, though.

Racetrack and his friends never let Irene know about the conflicts between the different boroughs of New York. Race never wanted his daughter to feel unsafe, or get caught up in the gang warfare that was his world- and the world Irene had been born into. He never wanted her to have to fight. He kept all that he did at night a secret.

Now was about the age when it was expected for Irene to leave for a girl's lodging house or get a job, but since her father now ran the lodging house, and exception was made. She was the only girl who lived there.

Every Thursday was Italian night- Race and Irene would cook enough pasta to feed the entire lodging house and still have leftovers.

Irene was a newsie starting at age twelve, though it took her quite sometime to convince her father to let carry the banner. After much pestering (which she later went to confession for), Racetrack let her sell newspapers, but only if she didn't sell in Brooklyn and went to "school" every other day. Irene agreed.

School to Irene was David's office at NYU. He was a night school professor there, and every other day she would come and he would expand upon the basic things her father taught her. He corrected her grammar, and she never spoke with a New York accent. She was eager to learn, and she excelled.

She didn't know much about Brooklyn; she'd never been there, as far as she knew. She knew that her father had some falling out with Spot Conlon when she was a baby, but that was it. In fact, she didn't know much about the first few weeks of her life, because Race made sure that she didn't know. All she knew was that her father had found her mother, Julia, dead, and decided to take her in. He never showed her the note that was left, but he told his daughter that Irene should always wear that necklace because it was all that she had of her mother.

The sweet-tempered girl was pretty, with dark, loose curls that hung down her back and brown eyes that looked with such concentration, same as when Racetrack first found her. Her ivory skin was icy pale, even though she was out in the sun for most of the day. Now, she was soon to be sixteen in four months time, and nothing could make the young girl happier then living in New York.

**Author's notes: I still think that Irene sounds like a Mary Sue… the litmus test told me otherwise though, with a low score of fifteen. She won't sound as bad later on, once the story really starts. **

**Reviewer of the chapter:**

**Ashley Sell: Yes people, this is one of my best friends from school, and she's my partner in crime for all things Newsies. THANKS ASHLEY! YOU ROCK! Talk to you at school… **

**Thanks people! All of your reviews were great. I'm still sort of short on time, though, so I had to only do one…**


	7. Ford Conlon

**Added Author's notes: Okay, I'm really sorry- I originally tried to post this on Wednesday, but QuickEdit flipped out on me, so I took it off. Until I could get to a computer that had it look better (namely, the computers at the library), I had to keep it in document manager. It still said I updated it, though. I'm sorry for any confusion… **

**Original Author's notes: Sorry… I kind of disappeared for a while there. I was working on my stupid insect collection (which is FINALLY turned in and graded)…  
When that was all said and done, I started working on a project for the NML (Newsies Mailing List for those who don't know… I'm Marty on there, and I recommend joining if you haven't already- it's the best place for Newsies fans)- Racetrack Week, which is November 26 to December 3. If you want the rules and information, please e-mail me.  
And here's the long awaited chapter… about Brooklyn's best killer, Ford Conlon… bet you can guess who he is…  
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone except Julia Lattori, Pipes, Pepper, Samuel "Ford" Conlon, and Irene "Saint" Higgins. Everyone else either owns (well, owned… they're long gone) themselves (in the case of Race, Mush, Kid Blink, and other actual newsies) or Disney owns. Not me. And this is the last disclaimer…**

Chapter Six: Ford Conlon

Ford sighed. The leaky sink in the washroom was getting on his nerves. He was lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, memorizing the cracks. The Brooklyn Lodging House had become rather run-down in the past few years…

_Drip, drip, drip._

"Is someone ever gonna fix that thing?" he said to his bunkmate, a newsie named Pepper.

"Maybe someday," Pepper answered back. "Why don't 'cha ask your father?"

Ford chose to ignore him and go back to looking at the ceiling. He sighed again. Pepper, although he was the closest thing to a friend Ford had, would never understand why he couldn't talk to his father. No one would. No one knew why the fifteen-year-old son of one of the most feared men in New York City was afraid of his father. In fact, no one knew he was scared. No one at all.

_Drip, drip, drip._

He remembered the good days, before Brooklyn fell apart.

Spot would take Sam with him everywhere; from just selling his newspapers to meetings with the other boroughs. He taught his son to read, to write, to observe, and most importantly (at lease to Spot) how to fight. Spot noticed that Sam, at this young age, had a knack for being fast when fighting. He was a quick thinker- strategies flew through his head like they wouldn't be able to be used again. Soon, Sam was as advanced as the oldest newsies. Sam wasn't a bit intimidated. Of course, why should he have been? He was Spot Conlon's son, after all.

Much like Irene and Race, they were very close. Sam had acquired a nickname during this time- "Ford," due to the fact that he would always scream "Model T!" when he saw one. His father would laugh and explain about the assembly line; how Henry Ford had changed the world. Shortly after Sam's second birthday, the man who ran the Brooklyn lodging house died. He did not leave the lodging house to anyone, but everyone knew that it would be Spot's. Spot now was the richest and most powerful newsie in New York. He was very busy, but he still made time to take care of his son.

All that changed with the death of Kloppman. Irene lost her "grandfather" that day, but gained a new place in society.

Sam, on the other hand, lost his father that day. Spot was furious. Racetrack was now his equal as far as power came. He had to share his title of the most powerful and feared newsie in New York. So now, Spot was a power-hungry gangster, doing anything he could to get more power, more control. And in doing so, forgetting his son.

The only thing that Sam had left of the days when his father was around was the nickname his father gave him- "Ford". Almost no one called him Sam anymore- he was Ford Conlon, heir to Brooklyn. Ford Conlon, Spot's best killer.

Sam now wasn't important to Spot- he was just another newsie. A very important newsie, but he lived and worked with the other newsies just the same. Which suited him just fine- except for the carrying-out-Spot's-every-command-without-a-word part. Spot always taught him to speak his mind- something he always had a problem with. Sam was the type of person who would secretly plan retaliation without saying a word.

He would notice the bad conditions of the lodging house and not say a word to anyone but his friends. He would notice someone getting beat up on the street, find out who they were, and what happened to them- without a word. He would kill whoever his father told him to kill and not say a word, though he would wonder what the poor soul had done to deserve it.

The only time Sam would ever see his father was when he paid to stay at the lodging house, when he was woken up by "Get your ass out of bed!", and when he was sent for, which only happened when Spot wanted somebody dead.

And Spot wasn't kind to his son anymore. A typical conversation with his father would be one-sided. Well, it would be two-sided, but only one had the final word.

_"Ford," Spot Conlon would say._

_"Hello…" Ford said, not knowing how to reply to the most powerful newsie in New York._

_"I'se got a job for you." _

_Ford would sigh. "Who is it this time?" _

_Spot would give the name of the unfortunate person who had crossed his path, and where Ford could find him._

_"What'd he do?"_

_"That's none of your business. You'se a smart-ass… Didn't I ever teach you the most important rule of bein' a newsie? Don' ask questions. Not to me. Not to anyone. Pay attention the first time, and just do what you'se are told," Spot would say, giving the same speech he always did._

_"Fine," Ford said. He'd walk out the door._

Then, at night when no one could see him, he'd do the dirty deed. And, as all Brooklyn murders these days, he'd dip his finger in the victim's blood, and then traced a "B" for Brooklyn and the letters "F" and "C" on the victim's right hand. A year or two back, Spot made it known that he wanted everyone to know who were the best in New York. So he came up with the system of writing the "B" and then the initials of the killer.

Once everyone figured out that the initials on almost all of the hands were "F" and "C", they put two and two together and figured out that Ford Conlon must be no one to mess with.

Ford had a reputation in New York. Every one knew that the famous killer was Spot Conlon's son- and the heir to Brooklyn. That was the reason Ford had never had many friends in Brooklyn- they were all afraid of him. Everyone did exactly what he said, when he said it. He never took advantage of them, though. The only person who ever genuinely talked to him, as the closest thing to a friend Ford had ever had, was Pepper, who had been a newsie since they were both nine. Pepper had his limits though- sometimes he could see right through Ford.

Everyone expected that one day, Ford would be as cynical as his father and control Brooklyn the same way. But Ford continued to silently protest the way his father treated him, Brooklyn, and New York. All he could do was hope- hope that one day, Brooklyn would go back to being the safe (well, safer) haven it had been when he was younger, and not the mafia it had become.

Brooklyn was his life, his soul, and his future- and it would all fade in an instant if Ford didn't do anything.

**Author's notes: I LIVE! It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, I had that stupid project (which I turned in and got a 92 on… better then nothing, I guess, but there goes my 100 in Science)… **

**Also, this was a really hard chapter to write… I didn't want too many original characters, and Spot and Ford are the only (current- Pipes is dead… more about him later) Brooklyn newsies that we know of… so, I just added Pepper.**

**Shout-outs (yes, everyone gets a shout-out this time!):**

**Squanto: Yes, people, this is the Ashley I was referring to before- except she has an account now! Yay! Anyways, I posted the next chapter- are you happy?**

**christianrockstar: Thanks! By the way, I like your Doogie Howser story- I've never seen the show and I understand it!**

**Gamble 7: Thanks… I'm hoping Ford's not a Gary Stu…**

**Silky Conlon: The Newsies Mary Sue Litmus Test is a type of quiz you can take online to tell you if your character is a Mary Sue, using a system of points and percentages. The link is **

**h t t p / w w w . g e o ci ti e s . c o m / H o l l y w o o d / T r a I l e r / 3 8 5 8 / m s n e w s i e s . h t m l (but take out the spaces…) It's helpful… Oh, and thanks for the review!**

**madmbutterfly713: There's stuff about the Litmus Test above… And thanks for your compliments!**

**Pepper's fun to write... you'll see. He's Brooklyn's comic relief... With his wacko thing with purple ties... lol I gave too much info away...**


	8. Stained Glass

**Author's notes: I'm back! And once again, sorry for the confusion of the last chapter… stupid QuickEdit. It got to the point that when I uploaded this chapter, I labeled it as quickeditsucks.  
I want to get right to the story…**

Chapter Seven: Stained Glass

"Papa," Saint said, pouting, "Why can't I go to the ball?"

"'Cause," Racetrack answered, "I'se don't want you getting' hurt by some guy."

"I won't! I'm nearly sixteen, Papa!"

"'Rene, you'se two when it comes to beggin'…" he said with a smirk.

They were sitting at the front desk, and the boys were filing by, one by one, and paying to stay at the lodging house that night.

"Listen to your daddy, Saint," Jack said when he walked by. "He knows what he's talkin' about."

"Sure he does," she said with some sarcasm. "He's a fifteen-year-old girl who wants to wear make-up, get dressed up, and go to a Mardi-Gras ball at Irving Hall!"

"Nope, but he's been to Irving Hall enough to know what goes on there," Race replied, hoping that she'd give up soon.

He honestly didn't care if she went or not- but Brooklyn would be there, and she didn't want her dancing with one of Spot Conlon's boys. Specifically Ford Conlon. He'd heard enough about the famous murderer… And Irene might find out about the conflicts between the boroughs.

"Like what?" Irene inquired curiously.

"Will you'se just shut up already?" Skittery asked, in another bad mood.

"Not a chance, Skitts- my little goil's never gonna quit," Race said with a smile. He knew it was true- although Irene probably would go to confession that very night, he knew how determined she could be. "Alright," he answered with a sigh, "you can go to that dance. But you are _not_ wearin' one of those new hobble skirt things."

Saint laughed. "Don't worry, Papa- I won't. Oh, _grazie_, Papa!" She threw her arms around her father.

Race grinned. He loved to see her happy. "Well, go see Sarah tomorrow and see what she can do."

* * *

"A dance, Pep? Are you nuts?" Ford said, shocked at what his friend was telling him about.

"Nah- but I heard that Mid-Town's got some pretty goils right now, and I thought that you might want to check it out, 'cause you'se single and all," Pepper replied.

"Pep! I'm happy about bein' single!" Ford explained in his dialect. He used some of the New York accent, but knew enough about the English language to know better most of the time.

"No you ain't! C'mon, Ford, it'll be fun!"

"But what will my father say-"

"He'll be happy that you'se actually got out! Besides, who's gonna tell him?"

Ford sighed. They both knew that Pepper's theory wasn't true- Spot liked to make sure that no one knew where Ford was, except when he was selling his newspapers.

"It's a masked ball- no one will even know it's you!"

"But where am I supposed to get clothing for it?"

Pepper grinned. "I know just the place."

* * *

"THAT'S WAY TOO TIGHT!" Irene screamed as Sarah pulled her corset tighter.

"Hey- you want to look slim, don't you?" Sarah asked.

"Well yes, but-"

"But what? I know what you're thinking, Miss Saint. That you're going to find the boy of your dreams at that ball. But it's not going to happen if you keep whining about how tight your corset is."

They were at B. Altman's in the Custom Department, and Irene was getting a dress made. Usually, custom made, designer dresses were very expensive, but Sarah worked there as a seamstress and was allowed to use the fabrics for her own work. She got her boss Eric (an up-and-coming designer) to help her make and design Irene's dress, gloves, and mask in time for the ball.

"You've got a wonderful figure," Eric said as he walked around Saint.

"What do you think would look best?" Sarah asked him.

"Hmm… black lace would look good with that pale skin… over satin. A dark magenta satin. It should go a little past her knees…"

Soon, they were off pining down fabric and measuring her, cutting and sniping all the way.

After a while, they were finished. They took off the pieces, and Sarah said that she would have it sewn and finished by the next day.

As much as Saint liked the attention and the fact that she was getting a new dress, she was glad that this part of getting ready for the ball was over.

She slipped back into her regular blue dress and ran to the church she went to with her father. Saint went inside, and knocked on the door Father Matthew's office.

"Yes? Who's there?" a voice came from inside.

"It's Saint Higgins."

A tall, Irish man opened the door and came out. He sighed.

"Here for confession again, Saint?"

She nodded, and followed him into the confessional.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned…"

* * *

"Here's the place," Pepper whispered as he walked into the church.

"Pep, I didn't know you were a Catholic!" Ford said, surprised.

"Yeah, neither did I. I've never been here before." He knocked on one of the priest's door. "Guess he ain't here… why don' we wait a few minutes?"

They sat in a pew. This was the first time he'd ever actually been in a church, that he could remember. Ford looked at the stained glass windows, filled with pictures of Mary and the Saints and Jesus.

He knew some about the Catholic faith- mostly things from the Irish newsies in Brooklyn. He knew who Jesus was, and knew a few bible stories. He knew he prayed to God, on the off chance he actually did pray. But he'd never been to church.

Just as he was getting lost in thought, a man walked out of a small room. Following him was a girl he had never seen before.

He watched as the girl walked aside, genuflected, and went into the nearest pew.

It wasn't until Pepper punched him in the arm that he looked up.

"C'mon," he whispered. They walked over to the priest.

"Ah, Bartholomew, it's been a few days since I last saw you," the priest said.

"_Bartholomew_?" Ford whispered, acquiring a piece of blackmail.

"Shut up, Samuel," Pepper answered. "So, Father Matthew, this here's my friend Ford. It took a while, but I convinced him to come to the ball with me."

"Ah," Father Matthew said. "So you're the famous "Ford Conlon" I've heard so much about.

"_And you said that you'd never been here_," Ford whispered to Pepper again. "Uh huh…"

"Don't worry- I won't get you into any trouble. Although, if your father finds out that you were here, you might be in a bit of a jam…"

Ford was puzzled. "You know my father?"

"We talked briefly a few times, concerning your baptism. But that was… fifteen years ago, I think. My, have you grown… and so has your father. But I don't believe that's why you're here, Samuel. Now, as you were saying, Bartholomew."

"But-" Ford started, but was cut off by Pepper.

"Yeah- we was wonderin' if maybe you'se people at the church could give us somethin' to wear to the ball."

"I think something could be arranged…" Father Matthew said.

Ford didn't pay much attention to the rest of the meeting. After Pepper talked to Father Matthew for a little while longer, they walked out of the church. As they were leaving, the girl waved to Father Matthew and walked towards the door on the opposite side of the church.

The two started walking back to Brooklyn, talking all the way.

"So," Pepper said. "We'se are to come here before the ball and get ready."

"Sounds good. By the way, _Bartholomew_, how do you know that guy?"

"That guy's actually my uncle. I chat wit' him occasionally. I told him a little about you. Not much, though, _Samuel_."

Ford laughed. "How comes he never uses anyone's nicknames?"

Pepper smirked. "Unless they have anythin' to do wit' religion, he doesn't use 'em. You know that goil that was in there?"

"Yeah?"

"He uses her nickname. That'll be Saint Higgins, Racetrack Higgins's daughter. You know, one of Manhattan's leaders?"

"Uh huh…" Ford said. "I've heard of him. Who hasn't? Hey, have you ever talked to that girl?"

Pepper looked uncomfortable. "So what if I did?"

"I'm just asking… don't shit your pants."

"If your dad gets wind that I'se said two words to the enemies daughter, I'se dead. He'll say that I ain't "loyal" to Brooklyn. He'll kill me. Ever heard of Pipes Johnson?"

"No."

"The most famous case of not bein' "loyal" ever. Happened 'bout fifteen years ago, apparently. Not that a lot of people knew about it- it was covered up by both sides. So Pipes is Spot Conlon's best man. He ends up in an- uh, how do I say this- _compromising _situation with Julia Lattori, Conlon's cousin by marriage and only living relative. He starts skipping meetings, disappearing, and sneaking away- all during the Newsboys strike of 1899. So Spot sends his boys to kill him- and Julia. But Julia gets away somehow… and has Pipes's daughter. Eventually, they catch up to her an' kill her. But who should find her, but Spot's ally an' friend, Racetrack Higgins!"

"But Manhattan and Brooklyn-"

"This was before that. Actually, they were really good friends, Conlon an' Higgins. So, in a note she left, she says that she got a daughter, and that the person who finds her has to take care of her. That, in turn, is how Saint became Race's daughter. But it wasn't long 'til he found out 'bout what Spot did… and that's when all ties between 'Hatty and Brooklyn were broken."

"Wow… that must'a been around the time I was born. I wonder why I never heard about it."

"'Cause Conlon and Higgins don' want anybody knowin'! But word gets around…"

"Yeah…" Ford answered.

He pictured the story he heard like the windows in the church- stained glass. He just wondered which panels depicted him.

**Author's notes: Well, that was a longer chapter then I usually have! But it was fun writing… I actually spent most of Columbus Day working on this story, so the next few chapters are from then.**

**Shout Outs (I didn't get many reviews last time :-( ):**

**madmbutterfly713: Yeah... what a coincidence! And it was... really.**

**Elyse: The term "El Shaddai" means "God Almighty" in Hebrew and is coming up in a few chapters. Actually, Spot's really good at covering up where he and his son and the rest of Brooklyn have been... once again, more with that later. Thanks for the complements.**

**christianrockstar: Nope... Spot just gives the orders- Ford's the real killer. More with that later... dundundun... **

**Hopefully I'll get more reviews this time... :-D**


	9. Red Roses and Purple Ties

Author's Notes: Yes, this is yet another chapter I wrote (or started) on Columbus Day… I had absolutely nothing to do but watch Phantom of the Opera (Squanto's borrowing my Newsies DVD), stare at my e-mail to see if anyone is going to send me something, hit refresh a million times on my profile page and wait for someone to update something, and type this like mad.

**Here's the chapter:**

Chapter Eight: Red Roses and Purple Ties

"C'mon- look at yourself, Irene!"

"Papa, I'm afraid to look!"

"'Rene, just look at yourself!"

"I look terrible, right?"

"No! Just turn around and look at yourself in the damn mirror!"

Racetrack and Saint burst out laughing. She could only go so far without having her father lose his temper…

"Fine. On the count of three."

"One-" Sarah said.

"Two-" Race continued.

"Three!" Irene exclaimed, and she turned around.

The dress was a dark magenta satin with black lace and went down to just below her knees, just as Eric had wanted. It went straight down, with the tiny sleeves and elbow-length gloves- all satin. The sash was also satin, and had black beading across it. The neck was modest- a simple scoop that showed no cleavage. Irene was especially happy that Sarah told her that it looked better without the corset.

"Oh Sarah! It's beautiful! You must have been up all night making it!" she exclaimed.

"No… just until midnight," Sarah said with a wink. "I'm glad you like it, darling. Here's your mask."

The mask matched the dress- satin covered with lace.

Saint held the mask in her hands while Sarah did her hair- back and out of her face, with a few curls framing her pale face.

She put on her mask and black shoes, and ran into her father's arms.

"So what do you think, Papa?" she said, spinning around.

"I think the most beautiful girl in all of New York is standin' in front of me," he answered with a weak smile.

The other newsies that would be attending the ball were already on their way there.

"Leave the ball at one. Now, be safe," Racetrack told his daughter.

"Papa, don't worry! I can take care of myself," Irene said as she skipped along with the others. "'Bye, Papa!"

"That's what I'se worried about," he whispered.

---

"Pep, this tie is _purple_!" Ford exclaimed.

"So? It's a Mardi Gras ball- what's the matter with it?" Pepper had a gold tie.

"Purple… isn't a guy's color…"

"You'se got issues, Conlon!"

They laughed as they changed into the suits and ties that were provided for them.

"Wait! We don't have masks! Oh well, I guess we can't go now, can we?" Ford asked with mock disappointment.

"You'se goin' to that ball, Ford." Pepper handed him a black mask with purple accents.

"Oh, shit…" he muttered while putting it on.

Pepper put on his own mask, with gold instead of purple on it.

"C'mon- let's get goin'."

---

The annual Mardi Gras ball was a big event, hosted by an aging Medda and the newspaper companies. If the newsies didn't have enough money to buy an outfit, the newspaper companies (which hosted several events for the newsies- they had ever since the end of the strike) made sure that department stores let them borrow the suit or dress for that one night. Of course, Saint, being Race's daughter, didn't need to resort to that, and Ford didn't want his identity revealed.

Swirls of gold, purple, and green lit up the theater as people danced. Everyone's face was covered in a mask.

As Saint walked in, she suddenly felt very intimidated. Except for the Manhattan newsies, she knew almost no one.

And Ford knew no one but Pepper, who already was dancing with a girl from Queens.

So, somehow, they both had the idea of going to the drink table. They got into a conversation.

"Some party, eh?" Ford said.

"I guess," Saint replied. Suddenly, she started laughing. "Your tie is _purple_!"

"Yeah, I guess it is… next time my friend picks out my suit, I'm goin' with him."

They laughed.

"That's an interesting necklace," Ford asked.

"My mother… well, it's a long story, and I have no clue what half of it means anymore. Well, it was my mother's, anyway."

"Oh. Sorry if I brought any bad memories."

"That's okay," she said sheepishly. "I'm sorry I insulted your tie." Saint paused, stifling a giggle. "Would you like to dance?"

Ford was shocked. Usually the boy asked the girl to dance, not vice versa. Nevertheless, he accepted her gloved hand and led her to the dance floor. He wanted to find out more about this bold girl.

"Where are you from?" he asked politely.

"Manhattan. You?" Irene either didn't notice, or chose to ignore the look of shock on the boy's face.

"Brooklyn."

They danced for several songs.

"You're a wonderful dancer," Ford said.

"Well, um, thanks. My papa and I used to dance to records all the time."

"You must be close to your father, then."

"Yes."

"I wish I could say the same," he said glumly, "my father and I don't speak that often."

"Oh, that's unfortunate. What does your mother say about that?"

"I don't have a mother- she died when I was born."

"I'm sorry!"

"That's okay. By the way, what's your name?"

Saint froze. All of a sudden, her nickname seemed too childish for this handsome boy.

"Irene. What's yours?"

She didn't give him a nickname, so he gave her his real name. "Sam."

"Well, Sam," she said, "I'm glad to have met you."

"I'm glad to have met you, too, Miss Irene."

He was so polite. Irene wondered where he learned manners, coming from Brooklyn. She'd never actually met anyone from Brooklyn, but she had been told enough.

"So- you're a newsie, I guess," Irene stated.

"Yeah. I-I mean yes, I am. Are you?" He suddenly felt the need to impress her; to show her that he wasn't the average newsie you find on the street.

"Every other day, I am."

"What do you do the rest of the time?"

"I go to school. Well, my uncle teaches me. He works at NYU."

"Oh." Sam felt inferior, even though he went to school up to sixth grade- all that was required at the time.

"Do you go to church?"

He didn't know how to answer that question- whether to say yes or no.

"Well, I actually just found out that I was baptized- I don't know why my father never told me."

"Hmm…" Irene replied. "Well, my papa and I go every Sunday."

"I think I might start."

"That's nice. You should go with us some time." The conversation paused for a few dances after that.

"Would you like to walk outside with me?" Sam asked.

"Sure."

They walked outside to the front of the theater.

"I was wondering if you had a nickname," he asked.

"Yes," Irene said uncomfortably, "although, if it's okay with you, I'd rather not say it right now."

Maybe she was hiding, too!

"I'm sorry," he said. "Would you like to meet me somewhere tomorrow night?"

Irene thought for a minute. Maybe… maybe this was the boy! The boy that she'd been waiting for her entire life! Something told her to say yes, and something told her to say no.

"Yes. Where do you want to meet?"

"Umm…"

"Wait! Do you know where the Horace Greeley statue is?" Irene asked

"Yes- Newsies Square." Sam answered.

"Meet me there tomorrow night at sundown."

"Okay." Suddenly, he felt the urge to kiss her. Irene, who had just glanced at the clock, interrupted his thoughts. It was one thirty… she was late!

"I have to leave."

"See you then?"

"Yes. Until then, Sam."

"Wait, Irene!" he yelled.

"What?"

"Take this to remember me by."

He handed her a red rose that he had picked off of one of the decorations.

Irene smiled, and said thank you. With that, she ran back to Duane Street as fast as her legs could take her.

---

"So," Pepper said, as they left, "I saw you wit' that girl."

They left a few minutes after Irene did.

"Yeah. So?"

"Did 'ya kiss?" Pepper had kiss marks all over his cheek, and was now frantically trying to rub them off before they got back to the church to get changed.

"No."

"That stinks."

"But I'm meeting her tomorrow," Ford said, hoping to get it through to his friend that he wasn't as wimpy as Pepper thought. After all, he was Spot Conlon's son- he had a reputation. Not that Pepper could see it…

"WOOOOO! Score for Mr. Conlon!"

They walked into the church, got changed, started back to Brooklyn, and picked up the conversation where it left off.

"So, what's her name?" Pepper inquired.

"Irene," Ford replied.

"Hmm… I think I know her from somewhere… Well, it ain't important. So where are you meetin'?"

"Newsies Square."

Pepper stopped walking. "Manhattan? Do you know what Higgins will to you if he finds you? She ain't from Manhattan, is she?"

"I don't know… but that's where we're meeting."

"Just don't get caught. Wait a second, why should I be scared? You'se Ford Conlon, Brooklyn's best killer, the sneakiest, fastest guy there is. Or are you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"This!" Pepper exclaimed. He stole Ford's hat and took off towards Brooklyn, his friend chasing him all the way.

---

Racetrack was pacing around the front lobby. He checked his pocket watch. It was nearly two; Irene was supposed to have left the ball almost an hour before. Where was she?

Suddenly, he heard a knock on the door.

"Where the hell were you?" he exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, Papa, I sort of lost track of time," Irene replied, hiding the rose in her hand.

"I can see that. So where's he from?"

"Who?"

"The boy you were wit'. One of the boys that came back told me you danced wit' one boy the entire night. Where was he from?"

_Oh, no… Sam's from Brooklyn… I'm dead if Papa finds out I danced with a Brooklyn boy all night._

"I don't know," she lied. "It really doesn't matter- I probably will never see him again."

Race sighed. He hoped it wasn't a Brooklyn boy.

"Well, you'se better get yourself to bed. 'Night, 'Rene."

"'Night, Papa," she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Irene was relieved when she was behind her closed bedroom door.

_I lied to him,_ she thought. _I lied to Papa… I've never done anything like this before…_

She put the rose on her nightstand and smiled, thinking of the wonderful boy she had met with the purple tie.

Author's notes: Pepper's always fun to write… he's Brooklyn's comic relief… for now.

**Okay, so I'm really rushed right now. I don't have time to answer everyone, but I'll give a generic response to everyone.**

**Shout Out:**

**Yeah… while working on this, I was looking around on the Internet for saints and what they are patrons of (I'm Catholic, and my confirmation is coming up soon). So, there might be some Saint's names floating around…**

"**El Shaddai" is coming up soon. I'll give a hint: it means God Almighty in Hebrew (it's also a song by Amy Grant that we did in my dance show. I was watching the tape of the show and I got the idea…). You'll see… **

**And the thing with Ford and the police is scattered around… that'll be discussed at different times.**

**So, review, please! Let's see if I can get to fifty reviews!**


	10. There Ain’t No Catch

**Author's notes: Ha ha… while I was writing this, I was watching SpongeBob Squarepants. It was that classic episode with the whole driving school hall monitor thing. Well, there's a Newsie fish that runs up to SpongeBob and Patrick and yells a headline about 'the maniac'. I remember seeing a screen cap of that part on a fan site a few days ago… Well, it was funny, anyway.**

**Oh, and for whoever asked, Irene can be pronounced several ways (I looked it up). I never really thought about how it was pronounced… **

**There is:**

**a. eye-reen (typical one)**

**b. er-ray-na (the German pronunciation)**

**c. Eye-reen-ie (the one I usually think in my head, and was most common during the time period. Yes, I looked that up, too).**

**It really doesn't matter. Oh, crap… once again, Irene's showing Mary Sue qualities… NO!**

**Also, I was chatting with a friend of mine who actually read this, and we were joking about the whole "BFC" thing… She asked if it stands for Brooklyn Fried Chicken… Ha.**

**Chapter Nine: There Ain't No Catch**

Irene slept for hours. Evidently, Racetrack had let her sleep, because when she opened her door, she found the bunkroom completely empty.

She ran down stairs and looked at the old, deteriorating grandfather clock that had been there for as long as she could remember. It was already eleven thirty… she was an hour and a half late to see David.

Irene changed out of her nightdress, and drew a tepid shawl around her shoulders.

She knocked on her father's door, and received no answer. She pushed on the door, and found him asleep on his bed. She kissed his forehead, and retreated to the kitchen, where she found pen and paper.

_Went to see David. See you at the normal time at the races!_

_Love,_

_Saint_

It was a chilly day- Irene could see her breath as she walked outside. It was late February, and the frost was turning to slush. She sighed- she hated when the snow melted. They were in for a warm summer…

She walked the distance to NYU. On her way up the stairs to David's office, she tripped on the stairs. She gradually picked herself up, wincing at the pain in her right ankle. Her bag, carrying all of her supplies, had split open on one of the seams. She knelt down again and cleaned up the mess. Saint limped up the hall and knocked on the door.

"Uncle David?" she called out.

"Come in."

She opened the door and limped in. "I'm sorry I'm late. I-"

"It's okay, Saint," David said. "I figured that you'd be late after the dance last night. Sarah told me all about your dress, down to the _very last detail_."

Irene laughed. They both knew how Sarah could go on and on about things. She sat in her chair and rubbed her sore ankle.

"Did you hurt yourself dancing?" he inquired, with a smug look on his face.

"No. I sort of tripped on the stairs."

"I'll get some ice," David replied, and he exited the small office.

Irene sat patiently for a moment, and then decided to tend to her ripped bag.

She walked over to the splintering oak desk with rusted brass handles in one corner in of the office.

_You'd think a night school professor would have a better desk,_ Saint thought.

Hoping that maybe she'd find thread and a needle to fix her bag, Irene opened a drawer. It had nothing but ink and pens in it. She opened another drawer. Still no materials for sewing. Deciding that David definitely did not possess his sister's talent for sewing, she decided to open one more drawer.

_It's a wonder Sarah hasn't equipped him with enough thread to mend every uniform in the military._

Irene pulled on the rust covered handle and peered in. Although no sewing supplies were in the drawer, there was a manila folder. She opened it, and discovered a newspaper from July of 1899. The year she was born. The headline spoke of the much talked about (at least in the newsie world) strike of that year. She knew that her father was involved, but she didn't know too much about it.

Upon reading the headline, Saint heard the creak of the stairs as David came with the ice. Although it was against her better judgment (and the Ten Commandments), she hid the folder in the mess that was her bag.

She quickly sat in the chair, as David entered the room.

"Here you go," he said as he knelt and placed the ice on Irene's ankle.

"Thanks."

"So, where did we leave off the other day?"

---

"Your damn father and his late notice meetings," Pepper muttered as he flopped on the bunk with his last paper of the day.

"When's the meeting?" Ford asked.

"Tonight at the bridge."

"Where else? It's always at the bridge. You'd think ol' Spotty could come up with something more original." He rolled his eyes. "Wait, did you say tonight?"

"Yep," Pepper replied. "Ooh, you got a meeting with that girl you met at the dance last night."

"Shhh! Keep it down, Pep," Sam said as he quickly looked around to make sure no one heard. To his relief, no one had. "Uh, do you think you can cover for me tonight?"

"Mister Conlon, what may I ask is goin' through that head of yours? Remember Pipes Johnson?"

"Well, it's not like I'm missing more then one meeting."

"You of all people know the deal- four missed meetings-"

"And your friends will deal with you with their greetings. Yeah, I know. This is the first meeting I've ever missed! And it's not like you haven't missed a meeting before. Two, if I remember correctly."

"Hey, I ain't Spot Conlon's son. Tell you what- I'll tell them you're sick. This is it. No more."

"Fine. Wait… what's the catch?"

"There ain't no catch. I'm just glad you'se gettin' out for once."

---

At four in the afternoon, Saint walked- well, limped- to the races to meet her father. As usual, there he was in line to bet.

"Hey, 'Rene. Why you walkin' funny?" he inquired.

"Oh…" Irene replied. "This? I sort of fell on the stairs at David's."

Racetrack thought for a moment, and then tried to put on his most serious face. "I guess you can't go to David's anymore…"

Irene glared at him, and then they both erupted into playful laughter.

---

Race lost his bet. Irene sighed. That wasn't surprising…They were walking back to Duane Street. Right when they were about to turn a corner, Saint decided to speak up.

She looked at a nearby clock.

"Um, Papa?" she inquired.

"Hmm?" he replied, looking up from his empty wallet with a depressed look on his face.

"I have to go see someone, a friend of mine. I won't be home for supper."

Her father was puzzled. Where could she be going on a Wednesday evening?

"But it's Ash Wednesday… we'se was gonna go to church tonight."

"I'll meet you at the church, then."

"Eight o'clock sharp."

"Okay."

They parted ways, and Irene went over to Newsies Square. Usually, she'd skip it, but because of her ankle, that wasn't an option.

Saint found the Square barren and deserted. Most people were eating dinner right about now… it was eerily still. She sat on base of the statue, waiting for the boy named Sam to show up. She tapped her foot against a grimy puddle. She couldn't stand silence; when she was at home, nothing was quiet. The splash of the contaminated water satisfied her.

After about a half hour of nothing coming near her except for a flower cart and a stray dog, Irene began to think that maybe she had been stood up. She read a book from her bag, which still was ripped.

Five more minutes past. Still no Sam.

Finally, forty-five minutes after she showed up, she heard footsteps. Irene turned her head to the direction of the sound, and gave a sigh of relief as Sam walked over to her.

**Author's notes: Hmm… OH WHERE, OH WHERE HAVE MY REVIEWERS GONE? OH WHERE, OH WHERE CAN THEY BE? I don't know! PLEASE review people! I want to hit 50 before I post the next chapter (I'm not saying I won't post it, just that I'd like to hit 50 soon)… C'mon! Eight little reviews!**

**Elyse: Sure, Pepper's cute and funny now, but just you wait… Thanks for being an awesome reviewer!**

**Queen of Doom: And they danced… Yeah… well, if you noticed (if you've read some of my other work) I have this really odd obsession with masked balls. And that was before I liked Phantom of the Opera… _The Van Pelt Saga_ also has a masked ball in it, but the circumstances are completely different. Thanks for reviewing!**

**Let's see if you guys are psychic… What am I thinking?**

**If you guessed that I thinking, "Oh gee, I really hope that the readers review," then you're correct. Well, maybe not about the "Oh gee" part… ;-P**


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